Again from its old grief,
Looks up, athirst
And hungering,
Daring to dream again
Of flowers unhurt, and unstained rain
And love and spring:
Knowing that she shall build each place accurst
Into a thing that may some day again
Be our once land of comfort and delight,
Of ease and mockery...
Even forgetfulness:
Even the gift to bless.
Victory paces slowly through the lands:
No lash is in her hands,
She builds herself no triumph-arch for cover,
No common marble toy—
She is too great for joy.
She who upbuilds
Each little shattered home
And brings men back to it: and lover gives to lover,
And to the shattered soul its faith again,
And to the world continuance of God—
How should our praise for her
In high-crowned buildings stand—oh, how be pent
In built or written thing?
The stable world itself is her great monument!
